The Masked Games
by Kurohane Ookami
Summary: Twenty-seven tributes. Nineteen countries. Shinigami, Espada, and Human released into the bloodiest battle of their lives. Let the Games Begin.
1. The Beginning of the End

**Category: **Bleach

**Author: **Kurohane Ookami

**Title: **The Masked Games

**Pairing(s): **Unknown for sure at this time. _Might_ be light Grimm/Ichi, Tia/Starrk, and Sado/Isane.

**Genre: **Angst/Adventure

**Rating: **M - Violence, Torture, and Severe Language.

**A/N: **So, I really shouldn't be starting yet _another_ Fanfiction...But I've been planning this out for a few months now, and with all the excitement about the Hunger Games being released in a couple of months, along with the beautiful soundtracks for the movie, I've been inspired to begin writing my Bleach/Hunger Games Crossover.

**Update: **Yeah. I've re-written this thing so many times that I've kinda missed out on all the excitement, but hey, I'm still stoked on writing.

I am telling you now that if you have read the Hunger Games, you'll probably see some similarities to the books. If you haven't, I hope you enjoy.

Amazingly enough, Ichigo will _not _be the main character in this fic. (As in Point of View. He'll still be doing his superhero stuff, just not as much.) We'll be following the story from (surprisingly) Grimmjow's POV. I've always been curious as to how the story would work out if told from another persons perspective. Thus, Grimmjow was handed the position. (Can't you tell I've been planning this out?)

As a final note, all I can say is that you will be shocked. You will be angry. You might even cry.

May the odds be ever in your favor.

Let the Games..begin.

o-o-o-o

_"We were the ones who weren't afraid_

_We were the broken hearted_

_We were the scars that wouldn't fade away."_

_-Red_

o-o-o-o

**Chapter One**

_**Rio de Janeiro**_

_**Province Six, Kasai District**_

_**Also known as the Sexta District**_

He was not having a good day.

In fact, he was having a goddamned _awful_ day.

Some asshole next door had decided it would be a good idea to go and start a fucking neighborhood brawl in the wee hours of the morning and launch themselves through his window in an attempt to wrangle him into it.

It hadn't worked, of course. He was the Sexta. No one messed with him unless they had a death wish.

Then again, the blood definitely wouldn't be coming out of the carpet this time...

So here he was, two hours later, wandering the District as he saw fit, snapping at a few of the younger arrancar who didn't quite understand who he was and tried to pickpocket him. Not that he had anything of value to steal, anyway. His only actual belonging that he considered precious was his sword, Pantera. But no one was ignorant or stupid enough to try and take that from him. No, the only way his sword would leave him would be pried from his cold, lifeless fingers, and the odds of that weren't too high in the Sexta District.

Of course, there was still the Draw coming up in a few more hours as well. When all the fucking higher ups of the world decided to draw names of countries in the world, and then draw again until they had a city, and then draw a poor fuckers name from the remainder of that list. Something like that, anyway. He didn't particularly care how the system worked, only that they only aired the results. Who the 'lucky tribute and country are'.

Yeah, right.

If you could call being sentenced to an early grave lucky.

Drawing a slightly damp cigarette from his only intact jacket, he flicked a match against the nearest stone wall before lighting it and inhaling.

The sun wasn't quite decided if it wanted to hide behind cloud cover or shine brightly as he walked the still quiet streets of Rio.

Ah, Rio. The place where you killed, or were killed. Apparently, at one point, it had been a cultural hotspot, but now, it was just a crime ridden, arrancar run city that no one really cared or knew about. His District and name came from his reputation. He'd clawed his way to the top, unwilling to be killed like so many others. Needless to say, if he was Drawn, he wouldn't give a damn. Not like he had any family to begin with. Hell, he knew a couple of people who would practically sacrifice him just to become the Sexta.

Not that he cared.

He lived a pretty peaceful life, actually. No one really picked a fight with him because of his strength and cunning, so he was almost like a god here. He could go wherever the hell he wanted and there wasn't a lot that anyone could do about it. At one point they'd even nicknamed him Pantera, after his deadly blade. Of course, she hadn't been too amused with that development, so he'd squashed down anyone who insisted on calling him by the name. He could remember the confusion as he did so.

Fame just wasn't really his style. He was a roamer, a nomad at heart, so it was rare for anyone to actually sit down and have a heart-to-heart with the vicious teal haired man. Not that they would anyway.

"Got a fucking death wish? Get lost." he snarled at a passing arrancar who kept sending him death glares. The other arrancar was definitely smaller than him, not as well built. His blade wasn't exactly much to look at either, but he knew better than to judge someone just by their stature or their blade. He'd learned that lesson the hard way, many years ago.

Pantera nearly hummed as his hand went to the sheathed katana, and in a swift motion drew Pantera and lunged.

He had to credit this weakling: not many would be standing after the first strike. But still, his skills were minscule compared to his own honed instincts. He'd been fighting his entire life. Something like this was barely even a warm up.

They traded blows, Grimmjow lazily blocking and dodging, toying with his newest opponent. But, all games had to end eventually, and he threw himself forward, putting all of his weight behind the attack.

The other arrancar didn't stand a chance against brute force and a katana being shoved through his throat. With a gurgle, he collapsed, blood staining the cobbled street and gleaming like rubies in the morning light.

"I warned you." Grimmjow sneered, flicking more of the liquid off of Pantera before resheathing the blade and continuing on like nothing had happened.

o-o-o-o

One of the mandatory items one needed in every city or town, everywhere in the world, no matter how shitty it was, was a television. In Rio de Janeiro's central square, a six story high screen took residence, fired up only once a year for the Draw. By now, it was worn, but mostly clean. They couldn't do much about the flocks of birds that used it as a perch.

Grimmjow took a drag of his cigarette as he watched the huge screen blinked to life, the black and white background not even close to preparing him to the colourful freak that popped up on screen, a cordless mic held up to his face.

"Hello to you all and welcome to the Two Hundred and Thirteenth annual Masked Games!" he crowed, dual orange eyes sparkling. "I'm Akira Otorino, coming at you live from our government's HQ!"

_Yeah, right. _Grimmjow snorted in his thoughts, leaning farther against the wall at the edges of the crowd, slightly put off by the man's odd appearance. He had orange eyes, for starters, and neon yellow hair that stuck up in all directions. Then there was the vibrant pink and purple makeup plastered all over his face, giving him the vague appearance of a really, really ugly prostitute. On top of that, he was wearing a dark green suit with an ugly shade of yellow tie to go with it.

Grimmjow shuddered. Yeah, this one was fucking creepy.

"And now, the moments you've all been waiting for!" Akira beamed from on screen. "The final Draw will now begin!"

Grimmjow wasn't stupid. He knew that the Draw had already happened and now they were just airing it in every city or town in the world. The screen flashed over to a large table filled with people from all over the world.

"The final countries," an older man stood, a short graying beard moving with his words as he spoke, "are: Spain. Costa Rica. Australia. China. Mexico. Italy. Greenland. Brazil. Egypt. Russia. Scotland. Greece. Ireland. Norway. England. Afghanistan. Canada. Mongolia. And France."

Grimmjow's brow raised. Only nineteen? Usually there was at least twenty, if not more.

Now the screen flashed over to a raining background, a woman that eerily resembled their current host drawing out a name from a gigantic ornate bowl.

"Representing Spain.." she cleared her throat before reading out the name clearly, "is Coyote Starrk."

Again, the screen flashed, changing places. The names of the tributes were announced one by one.

"From Costa Rica..."

"Australia..."

"Representing China..."

The countries went on, a list of tributes compiling steadily.

"And from Brazil..."

The entirety of Rio de Janeiro froze.

"Tia Harribel and Grimmjow Jeagerjaques."

Grimmjow stopped dead, feeling the eyes of the people boring holes into his head, feeling as though he'd suddenly been cut off from the rest of the world. Of all the fucking luck in the world, of all of the millions of people there could have been, it just had to be his name that was Drawn.

Plastering a scowl on his features, his teal eyes spitting fire at anyone who dared keep their eyes on him, he held himself high as he ground the stub of his cigarette into the ground, feeling grim satisfaction as the stone cracked beneath his foot.

"Fuck this." he snarled. His mood had officially taken a nosedive. His nonchalant attitude towards getting Drawn was now retracted. He was full on, raging pissed. He'd managed to go this long without getting picked, and today, when his day was shitty as fuck, (and had he ever had a few of those) he just happened to get Drawn.

_What a fucking peachy day this is turning out to be_, he seethed. _Some fucker I killed is pulling some fucked up shit on me in revenge, I know it. _

Needless to say, Rio de Janeiro went through a bit of unplanned destruction, teal reiatsu rocketing into the sky and alerting anyone who didn't feel like dying to evacuate the area.

o-o-o-o

They came for him a couple days later, and Grimmjow found himself on one of the private jets that belonged to the Heads of the Masked Games. It was strangely subdued, other than the other tribute he was sharing his flight with.

Tia Harribel gave off a subtle '_Don't fuck with me' _vibe as she stared out the window, her arms crossed under her large bust and face oddly blank. Grimmjow studied her carefully as he lit a cigarette, leaning back in his plush seating and blowing the smoke towards the ceiling.

"It would be greatly appreciated if you would refrain from smoking in here."

He flicked his gaze to Harribel, raising a brow in question. "Oh?"

She stared him down levelly, her features revealing nothing. "It is a common courtesy. I suggest that you follow it."

As she spoke the last word, her tone turned hard, a glint of something dangerous surfacing for a moment in her eyes. To be honest, Grimmjow felt a chill wash over him for a moment.

"Che." he snorted, closing his eyes but putting out the cigarette nonetheless.

Damn women and their hormones.

o-o-o-o

Thankfully, due to the technology that the Capitol City possessed, their flight wasn't as long as they'd anticipated. Ten hours later, and they touched down on a private runway, where they were met by bright, colourful people who had absolutely no regard for personal space. Harribel looked about as irritated as Grimmjow felt, and he was a little startled at the fact that she wasn't all about a facade.

Then again, he could understand why. He was scowling for all he was worth, very sorely tempted to draw Pantera and cleave a few of the bumbling freaks in half to get the point across. He did _not _like being crowded. In any way, shape, or form.

So basically, this was his worst nightmare. Technically.

o-o-o-o

After he and Harribel had been rescued by a couple of the mentors, (they were uncertain as to who they would be mentoring) they had been escorted to their rooms, as it was late.

Grimmjow declined the offer of food, locking the door of his room before prowling through it, pawing through the stocked drawers of clothing, sniffing at the scents they held, pulling back the thin white curtains to reveal the night lit city, the height of his room making it seem as though he were God.

Pulling out another cigarette, he was annoyed as he realized that there were only three left. Sighing in irritation, he flicked a match and lit it, taking a long drag and staring out at the city blankly, the lights illuminating his sunkissed skin and teal eyes, setting them on fire.

He was far too restless to get any sleep. Instead, he left the thin curtains open, sitting in a semi-fetal position against the window with his cigarette, thinking on the events in the last twelve hours.

It was already so far behind him, and he hadn't even gone into the Arena yet. His life as the Sexta meant nothing here. It was just a name, a title of what he was. No one would understand his rank, the power behind it.

The only proof of who he was now was his sword. Wearily, he reached for said katana, palming the smooth sheath, the hilt that fit perfectly in his calloused and blood-stained hands.

He snorted, vague amusement in the sound. Did he ever sound like a whiny bitch, pining after a lost love. What was done was done. He would just have to win the Masked Games. It was as simple as that. He would fight until the death, if need be. There was no better way to go than in battle, against a worthy foe.

Now he did laugh, low and menacing, and full of dry humor.

"Let the fucking Games begin, bitches."


	2. Training Day

**Hey all. Did you miss me? Singer and I were watching the Hunger Games a couple nights ago and I was inspired to write another chapter. However long it may be, I hope you enjoy and review. **

o-o-o-o

_'Aut Vincere Aut Mori'_

_Either to conquer or die_

o-o-o-o

**Chapter Two**

_**Training Centre for the Masked Games**_

_**4:00 AM**_

He pushed open the huge doors of the centre, eyes taking in the equipment and the dim lights that were shining dully from the ceiling along the walls. The faint scent of sweat and blood was still hanging in the air from the last Games, and he found himself relaxing as he began warming himself up.

Among the many objects available to him were an entire arsenal of boxing equipment, including three large punching bags that gleamed, no doubt all new. Weaponry and various other 'stations' of sorts were spread through the large space, waiting for the next poor group of idiots who were drawn this year.

He drew Pantera, stalking towards the weaponry side of the centre, where a lifelike mannequin awaited him. Studying it for a moment, his features blank, he swung his sword in a lazy arc towards its neck.

What startled him was that the mannequin _moved_. Quite suddenly, in fact. One moment it was motionless, the next its own weapon, a mace of some kind, nearly took out his ribcage. Luckily, Grimmjow's reflexes were unmatched, and he flipped back, landing on the balls of his feet. To be perfectly honest, he didn't actually care that the mannequin moved or not. He'd seen odder things back in Rio.

He crouched, Pantera held loosely in one hand, eyes narrowing into slits as his adrenaline began pumping itself into his bloodstream.

Looked like he would be getting a workout after all.

o-o-o-o

It was only another hour or two before the next tribute came in, the tiny woman from China. She looked merciless, her features set in a blank mask, but he had the satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen in shock before concealing it.

He nodded sharply in greeting, earning one in return before she moved off smoothly to the agility section. He stood for a moment, watching as she immediately began a complicated regime of flips, kicks, and puches to invisible foes. Obviously experienced, Grimmjow filed her away for later. Perhaps she could be of use to him at some point in the near future.

Over the next couple hours, more of the tributes filed in, some still rubbing the sleep from their eyes. The various trainers filtered in as well, their uniforms crisp and clean, and moved over to their respective stations, waiting for the tributes to come to them.

After analyzing each station, he eventually picked the plant station, knowing quite well that plants would have a very large impact on his life while in the Arena. People had died from eating the wrong berries or mushrooms, thinking them harmless until their deadly poison choked out their lives.

He'd rather not die from a mushroom, thank you very much.

Grimmjow found the plant station rather simple. All he had to do was point out which plants he knew were safe and which ones weren't, and they went from there. After spending an hour there, he moved on to the agility station for something to do.

It was about then that he actually tuned into the different languages humming around him, some soft and musical while others were bold and gruff.

A cherry haired male and an orange haired male were bickering in loud, gravelly tones; he recognized them as the Irish and Scottish tributes. Obviously, they didn't like each other.

He continued watching the show, amused by their facial expressions and the language, though he didn't speak it. It was hilarious, knowing that some of the words they were saying weren't appropriate for some of the more feminine tributes nearby, such as the pale violet haired girl from Italy. She was over at the healing station, speaking quickly and quietly with the trainer.

So she was a healer? Grimmjow watched her swift movements. Perhaps he would ally himself with her for a while. Healers weren't all that common in the Games, and when they were, they were usually picked off in the first day. Most of the time they were gone in the first three minutes. They just weren't cut out for fighting.

Other than that, there weren't any other tributes that tempted Grimmjow to ally himself with: only the Italian tribute.

o-o-o-o

He dragged himself back to his room in a semi good mood. Other than having a translater chip placed in his ears, he'd successfully mastered all that he could in the plant station, feeling that he had a chance in the Arena now that he had an idea of what kind of greenery they would be putting in it. At the very least, he knew which mushrooms to avoid at all costs.

"So, you're one of the idiots I'm mentoring?" a voice asked smoothly.

It was clockwork. He drew Pantera in a swift motion, whirling and bringing the blade down on the sheath of another weapon.

A bald man, red tattoos around his eyes and a sharp nose, held his ground against him, his lips pressed in a thin line, though the edges were threatening to lift into a smirk.

"Perhaps you aren't such a loss." he commented. "You've got potential, at least."

Grimmjow hissed, baring his teeth. "Fuck you."

He resheathed Pantera, stepping back and glowering at the man who also happened to be his mentor.

"I'd heard rumors, but I didn't think all of them were true." the man continued, stepping towards the teal haired Espada. "Like how you're an Espada. Hard to believe, if you ask me."

"Good thing. I didn't." he snapped back, remaining still. He was itching with the temptation to run. Something about this man had the hair on the back of his neck standing straight.

"The name's Ikkaku Madarame. I come from the same Province you do. Won a few years back and been staying here since."

That would explain why he didn't like this guy. He had the same way about him that he did. The same air of confidence, of leadership that no one would question unless they wanted a sword through their throat.

Now that he'd mentioned it, Grimmjow did remember those Games. The Arena had been a thick jungle, vines and shrubs making it difficult to walk. He'd won since his weapon could split itself and move around the trunks of the trees, using it as a sneak attack whenever possible.

"Grimmjow Jeagerjaques, though I suppose you'd know that by now." he replied, not taking his eyes off of the man. He refused to trust him. He hadn't trusted anyone in a very long time, and he wasn't about to start now, damn it all.

"Damn straight I know it." Ikkaku snorted, hefting his sheathed weapon over his shoulders. "Your fellow tributes from Sixth are from Norway. Zaraki Kenpachi and Yachiru Kusajishi."

Grimmjow raised a brow. The pink haired brat and the creepy looking psycho?

Seeing the look on his face, Ikkaku grinned ferally. "Looks like they'll be a fun match if they decide to go after you in the Arena. Fortunately, you've still got a week before then, so I suggest you start looking for allies or a Pack."

"Italy." he automatically replied. "She's the only ally I want."

"I'll see what I can do, Jeagerjaques." Ikkaku shrugged. "Now, head upstairs. Yumichika's waiting to get you ready for the interviews tonight."

Crap. He'd forgotten about the interviews. They always happened the first night that tributes were in the Capitol, primping them up and trying to get sponsers from the get go. He had no want or need to get dressed up like some toy and then be paraded around in front of millions of people in the slight chance that it would keep him from dying for a couple more hours.

No thanks.

o-o-o-o

"There is absolutely no way in fucking hell I am wearing that." Grimmjow deadpanned, looking at the ridiculous outfit that Yumichika had laid out for him.

"I'm agreeing with him on this one Yumi." Ikkaku piped up, looking at the offending material like it was a snake. "Besides, all the male tributes have to wear suits tonight."

Yumichika grumbled about mutiny before clearing away the material and glaring at his partner. "I hate you Ikkaku."

"And yet you stay because of the sex." Ikkaku grinned cockily.

"Well duh. The sex is excellent."

Kenpachi and Grimmow covered Yachiru's ears in that moment, sharing a common thought. These things should not be spoken so casually in front of a nine year old girl. Regardless of how sadistic she may be.

"Back to the subject at hand." Ikkaku finally broke away from the small argument, crossing his arms. "I hope you have a suit ready, because otherwise it ain't gonna end well for you."

"It simply isn't beautiful if one does not have a plan." Yumichika sniffed haughtily, going over to his rack of clothing and rummaging through it before pulling out a simple black tuxedo and a sky blue tie, the white dress shirt resembling a tunic more than anything else.

Kenpachi was already dressed in his black dress shirt and slacks, his hair restyled from the spikes to a loose tail at the base of his neck. Yachiru was dressed in a persimmon orange dress, the skirt resembling a ballerina's. They'd managed to wrangle her into a pair of similar shoes, the toes sporting a pair of butterflies made out of fabric. Her pink hair was styled in tight curls, which framed her face and made her already large eyes even larger.

Grimmjow took the clothing from Yumichika warily, keeping his head of teal hair safely out of reach. He'd already had it attacked with a pair of scissors, a process he had no want to repeat. Ever.

Dressing himself quickly, he appraised himself in the available mirror before presenting himself to Yumichika.

"So beautiful." he cooed, moving forward to fix his tie. "I'm sure you'll get hundreds of sponsers."

Grimmjow felt his lip curl up ever so slightly. Was that supposed to comfort him? Getting people to buy him something expensive that would only preserve his life for a limited time afterwards?

Yeah. Not happening. If people wanted him to be himself, they would get it. If people still wanted to lust after being a sponser, let them at it. Not like he had much choice in the matter anyway. He was still going to be fighting to the death in the Arena in a week.

o-o-o-o

"Welcome, welcome." Rojuro Otoribashi greeted warmly from his place on his comfortable chair. His blond hair hung loose, framing his thin face and over his dark blue suit, the white ruffled collar of his shirt sticking out.

He was a laid back host, his outfits toned down compared to some of the people Grimmjow had seen so far.

"Well, this year is sure to be an eventful Games." he smiled softly at the audience, who clapped and cheered appropriately. "This year marks the two hundred and thirteenth year of the Masked Games, and taking a look at our tributes tonight, there's sure to be some excitement."

Grimmjow fought to keep his features calm backstage, trying not to destroy everything nearby and make a break for freedom. Not like he'd get far anyway. The place was crawling with shinigami.

"And now, let's meet our tributes." Rojuro gestured towards the side of the stage, where the tribute from Spain walked out. He was dressed in a smoke grey tuxedo, tie and shirt a clear white, hair tied back in a low tail.

Taking a seat across from Rojuro after shaking hands, he looked as though he were about to sleep, grey eyes half lidded.

"And you must be Coyote Starrk. A pleasure. Call me Rose, everyone else does." Rojuro greeted warmly, giving a pointed look towards the crowd.

"It is good to meet you." Starrk inclined his head, a small smile tugging the corners of his mouth. Grimmjow swore half of the women in the audience swooned.

"Ah, such a charmer!" Rose laughed before turning back into the serious host. "Now, I think everyone here is dying to know the answer to this question. Is it true that you tried to volunteer for your younger sister when her name was Drawn ten years ago?"

Starrk's face was unreadable as he was silent for a moment, as if in thought. Then, he blinked and nodded slowly. "Yes."

A chorus of _'awww' _and _'the poor thing' _circulated the room. Rose was solemn for a moment. "I'm sorry to hear that. It must have been hard to see her go off to the Games."

"It was. I prayed for her to come home, but she never did." Starrk said softly. Grimmjow thought that the man looked like he wasn't even there, living some memory of the past as the audience murmured among themselves.

"A tragedy indeed." Rose smiled comfortingly, placing a hand on Starrk's knee. "What is your strategy going to be in the Games?"

"Stay alive." Starrk replied as the bell rang, signalling the end of their interview.

"Well, it certainly was a pleasure to meet you, Coyote Starrk!" Rose smiled, shaking the others hand before waving him offstage, signalling the next person forward.

After that, the tributes blurred for the most part. The only ones that he could really remember after that was the tribute from China, clad in a yellow silk dress that clung to her curves (small as they were) and ballet flats, her hair taken out of the two braids and plaited into a single braid down her back.

Then there was Italy, her pale violet hair and innocent eyes lit up by a dark purple dress that hugged her form to her waist, where it flowed out, the fabric lifted slightly. A pair of low, strappy heels adding to her already tall frame.

After that, there really was only one of the tribute's from Greece, a Neliel Tu something or other that he couldn't pronounce to save his life. She was here with her cousin, the other Grecian tribute that looked like he'd tried to eat a piano for breakfast. She looked stunning in a strapless seafoam green dress that matched her eyes, the dress falling around her like some royalty or other.

And finally, it was his turn.

"And now, from Rio de Janeiro, please welcome tribute Grimmjow Jeagerjaques." Rose smiled from on screen, his arm opening towards the side of the stage he was positioned at.

He moved onto the stage, ignoring the sudden _murmurs _and _sound _and _light _and _instincts _that screamed at him to _run_. Taking a seat in the chair across from Rose, he became aware that there were cameras filming him, projecting his face onto the screens back in Rio. He allowed himself to take a feral smirk, leaning back in the chair as if he owned it. Ikkaku had mentioned offhandedly that he may want to go for an angle. Some tributes went for cute and innocent, like Yachiru was going to, or completely freaked, or confident. Grimjow was going for _completely uncaring self centered asshole_. And so far it seemed to be going pretty well.

"Welcome." Rose smiled, his thin face looking unhealthy under the harsh lighting from above and around them. "Now, Grimmjow. I don't know about the rest of the audience, but I am definitely curious; is it true you're an Espada?"

Grimmjow grinned wider. "Wander the streets tonight and maybe you'll find out."

Rose burst into soft laughter, as did the audience. Apparently they saw this as a joke. Back in Rio-

Ah, but he wasn't in Rio any longer. These idiots wouldn't understand the danger if it came up to them with a brick and beat them to death with it. They tittered as if it was a harmless joke.

"Ah. Yes." Rose coughed. "Back to the topic. What do you think about the Capitol so far? Are we living up to your _exotic _taste?" Rose flourished the word, striking an odd pose.

"More alcohol for sure." he shrugged, reclining further in his chair. "Can't say I'm complaining."

A shadow flickered across Rose's face before he went back to being his soft spoken self. "I'm sure there are. Any particular brands you prefer?"

"Not in particular." he shrugged, thinking about that shadow that had crossed the other man's eyes. It was odd, that was for sure.

Before they could continue their _lovely _conversation, the bell went off, signalling the beginning of the pink haired menace's interview.

_Good luck. _Grimmjow thought in amusement as she bounced onto the stage, all smiles and giggles. _You're gonna need it when she's done with you._


	3. The Clock is Ticking

**A/N: Well, sorry for not updating sooner. I'm a wee bit busy at the moment with life. Which kinda sucks sometimes, so you all know. Anywho, I'm also going to be posting more for this fic, as the next couple of chapters are leading up to the Games. **

o-o-o-o

"_Broken down I lay,_

_I keep holding my chains,_

_No longer bound but here I stay"_

_-Run Kid Run_

o-o-o-o

**Chapter Three**

**Training Centre for the Masked Games**

**4:00 AM**

Grimmjow continued learning over the next week about all the different scenarios that he would most likely encounter in the Games, along with pairing up with Italy, whose name was actually Isane Kotetsu. She was rather timid compared to some of the tributes, and he deduced that she was probably not going to last long in the Games, regardless if they were allies or not. But damn it all if he didn't try to keep her alive for at least a couple of days.

Her healing skills already astounded him. She could heal even the most severe injuries on the 'dummies', all with the same calm demeanor that she retained while training and going about her daily activities.

Yachiru continued stalking him around, Kenpachi trusting her to take care of herself, as she was 'more than capable to take care of anyone who would want to harm her in any way, shape or form'.

Soifon, the tribute from China, seemed to have it out for him, something that amused him greatly when Yachiru told her off and 'not to touch my Kitty!'

Well, not so much with the 'Kitty' part.

What really annoyed Grimmjow to no end was the fact that he couldn't get any privacy, no matter where he went to escape the nefarious press. And if it wasn't the press, it was the security, or the mentors, or the designers, or some other fucking asshole who wanted to piss him off.

o-o-o-o

"Oh Grimmjow~!" Yumichika chirped, pouncing onto the teal haired Sexta's back and giggling girlishly. "I need you to come back to your room to try on the outfit for tonight's interviews!"

"No. "Grimmjow snapped, struggling to get the flamboyant gay off of his back. "And will you let go of me, you freak!?"

"Not until you come to get your outfit on!" Yumichika suddenly snarled, his grip unforgiving as he clung like a monkey on his back. "Now get your sexy ass upstairs before I do something you're going to regret!"

Immediately, Grimmjow gave in, knowing exactly what kind of thing he was speaking of and knowing exactly how unpleasant it would be for him and everyone watching. Who, at this point, consisted of most of the tributes and a couple of the other designers, who were snickering under their breath at his predicament.

Kenpachi and Yachiru were too, but he didn't really give a fuck about them right now. He was more interested in getting the punishment known as 'interview preview' over with.

o-o-o-o

"No. I refuse to wear that…thing." Grimmjow hissed venomously, his teeth bared as he attempted to claw his way up the wall and partially succeeding. At least until Ikkaku grabbed his ankles and tossed him across the room and into the opposite wall, where he lay there for a moment, stunned.

"Quit being a baby and get the damned outfit on." He rolled his eyes, his sheathed zanpakuto still slung over his shoulders as per usual.

"Easy for you to say. Did you see that monstrosity!?" he screeched, making a break for the door as Yumichika pursued him with a vengeance. "It's covered in feathers!"

"They're beautiful!" Yumichika yelled back in a rather un-beautifully-obsessed-Yumichika-way, diving for Grimmjow's ankles and missing by an inch.

Grimmjow yanked open the door and made a break for freedom, only to slam into something hard and warm.

Ah fuck. He swore, backpedalling the best he could under the circumstances. Kenpachi glanced over his head at the carnage within the room before looking back at Grimmjow, who, at this point, looked like a cat that had gotten tossed into a hurricane and then spat out.

"Going somewhere, Jeagerjaques?" he asked menacingly, taking a step forward and driving the unfortunate male back into the one place he didn't want to be at the moment.

However, when Yumichika flourished two more feathery costumes….

Let's just say that it wasn't a pretty sight.

o-o-o-o

"Welcome back to our second tribute interviews." Rose smiled softly, his outfit the same as the last night Grimmjow had been forced to come here. "Tonight, the tributes are preparing for the tomorrow, their last chance to get ready for the Games. Tonight, we drew numbers to see which tribute is going first."

The crowd tittered, as if they were a bunch of women. Actually, most of the crowd was women. Grimmjow paced in front of the large television, grateful for Kenpachi's destructive nature at this moment. He'd completely mauled the poor costumes, and there had been a very colorful room left behind when they'd finally managed to get another set of costumes ready.

"And our first tribute tonight is Grimmjow Jeagerjaques from Brazil." Rose smiled, waving the reluctant male onstage.

Gasps and murmurs broke out among the crowd: apparently they liked what they saw.

Grimmjow was dressed in a pair of low hakama style pants, white with black accents, and black with white accented boots. He had been wrangled into not wearing a shirt, and only wore an elbow length white jacket with black accents. His bronze skin glowed in the heavy lighting, and he'd been attacked with teal eye-liner by Yumichika literally before he went onstage.

He had not, however, allowed him anywhere near his hair.

"Good evening, Grimmjow." Rose murmured politely, offering him a plush navy seat. "I must admit, it's definitely like seeing a new you tonight. How is your designer, Yumichika is it? Is he proud that you're showing off his fine pieces of art?"

Grimmjow several replies to that particular question locked and loaded, but he instead swallowed heavily and plastered on a slight sneer. "Of course."

He then muttered something nasty about feathers, which, of course, the audience heard. So really, he didn't actually mutter. He'd actually said it loudly.

And of course, the audience took it for granted. Of course they wouldn't know the horrors of having a flamboyantly gay designer who, coincidentally, was in a relationship with his mentor. _Insert mental shudder here_.

"Ah, so there is a humorous side to you after all, Grimmjow." Rose grinned, revealing a set of completely pearl teeth.

He said nothing in reply, honestly done with all of the dramatic people around him.

_Well, at least the day after tomorrow will mark the end of twenty six people. _he thought to himself as the bell rang.

"Good evening, Grimmjow." Rose waved after him as he prowled offstage to the applause and cries of the audience. Apparently, they approved of him. And approval meant sponsers, which meant Isane would most likely last longer with him.

Something rebelled at the thought of Isane dying, and Grimmjow shook his head as he started back towards his room, where of course he would have no company for the rest of the evening. Now didn't that sound fucking peachy.

o-o-o-o

The next morning dawned bright and early, and Grimmjow was down in the training room by four. As usual, he was alone for at least an hour before China's tribute, Soifon, would come in, nod once in greeting and veiled threat, and get to work.

He knew that there would be one hell of a bloodbath tomorrow. After all, Kenpachi, Soifon, himself, and a couple of the other tributes could probably take down an army and be barely sweating. A creepy thought, but true nonetheless.

"Alright!" Hisagi, the head trainer, called as he came through the doors, "Today's our last day, so you need to do your damn best today to get ready!"

Grimmjow already knew that, although he didn't think that he needed to do much else than to focus on the minor training stations like plants and how to start fires. The small stuff that could save his life in the Games at some point. All he needed now was to get Pantera ready for the bloodbath that was sure to occur.

He spent the rest of the day sweating and fighting agains the dummies available, and by the end of the training day, there were pieces of them scattered everywhere. And by everywhere, it meant _everywhere_. There were even a few pieces stuck in the rafters and the ceiling.

o-o-o-o

Grimmjow fell asleep knowing that there would only be one person left standing.

And it was going to be him.


End file.
